


The Swans and the Swimming

by orphan_account



Series: It's My Party And I'll AU If I Want To [3]
Category: Formula 1 RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fast cars, ridiculous rules and the every day circus of the most homophobic sport. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Swans and the Swimming

"Watson," Irene whispers, "Please, behave. They were the only team willing to take you after your contract with Silver Motors ran out. Even after the truly catastrophic season." She lays her hand upon his thigh, a small squeeze telling him to sit up straight and smile, bloody hell, smile!  
He leans closer to her, whispering into her ear, hoping nobody present can hear the words he's about to say.  
"But I don't want to work with these cunts. Lestrade & Dimmock racing has a reputation Irene. And you know it, ah bloody hell, their first driver is the brother of the FIA president...Non biased results...kiss my ass."  
The frown that appears on Lestrade's face tells him he might have spoken a bit too loud, the harsh cold look the aforementioned Holmes sends his way only tells him he should've spoken louder.

  
Sherlock bloody Holmes. The Golden Boy, yeah no, fuck him. He's only here because his brother's the one who controls this sport. And as if it's not enough that his ticket into the royal motorsport was his fucking name, the public seems to love him. The mysterious, dark Sherlock Holmes, all glimmering eyes and muscles and curls. Perfectly made for this life filled with limelight and steel.

It's not like John's jealous, no not at all. He just doesn't deem it to be fair a last name can bring you into a top position in one of the most difficult sports ever. He worked his way into Formula One. He worked hard. Gave up relationships, time and even school just to lie down into the ridiculously ugly (Yeah, thanks Mycroft.) shiny cars that go too fast and are too uncomfortable. And now, now his luck seems to have left him somewhere along the way. Yes, his last season was shit. No points to speak of, no podium, nothing. And this bloke, this Holmes guy. One podium after the other. Trophies everywhere and news articles and everything that was John's to own now belongs to this stupid, young boy with his big name.

"I know what you think," a surprisingly deep, slightly hoarse voice pierces the silence, "The young boy with his big brother. I don't blame you," he underlines his words with a careless movement of his hand, "It's what everybody thinks of me. But if you will race for us, you will notice I'm not here because I'm a Holmes. I might've gotten here that way, but I've stayed for another reason."

The smirk he sends John's way makes him want to break the younger man's jaw.

"I'm good, John. I'm the best concurrent you'll ever meet and the best opponent you'll ever race."

There's poison in his gums, filling his words with venom. A dark glow filling bright eyes.

"And the worst teammate you'll ever have. Welcome to the team."

Sherlock stands up and opens the door, turning around to John one last time before leaving the room. The grin on his face distorting his features; devilish. Daring.

* * *

 

"This is Molly, our Team Doctor. You won't work with her closely, I hope, but still." He keeps quiet and waits for John to shake her hand, all polite smiles and muttered nothings. She blushes, looks away. As she walks away he notices how Lestrade looks at her, blushing slightly as he sees how Watson noticed his stare.  
"Okay, next stop, your team. You will of course keep Miss Adler as your PA and Press Officer, but you need a new physio, Stamford wasn't willing to transfer."  
He can feel his eyebrows furrowing, slightly surprised at the fact that his best friend he's known ever since he started out in Formula BMW wouldn't come with him, but he shrugs it off. Curiousity taking over. "Who?"  
"Yes, well," Lestrade says as he comes to a halt in front of a tall, lean man with black hair and even darker eyes. "This is Jim Moriarty, brother of..well John Moriarty. The-"  
"Silver Motors driver?" John finishes the sentence, eyebrows now almost reaching his hairline. John Moriarty, the bloke that stole his seat. The 'big talent', as his old teamchef, Victor Trevor, ever so eloquently put it. His replacement.  
What is it with Formula One being a family business anyway?  
"Hey," Jim says as he stretches out his hand, his wide smile showing off his white, obviously bleached teeth.  
"Hey," John says as he shakes hands, letting go of the other man's hand quickly. Jim looks small, not muscular or broad and toned like most physiotrainers. "So," he starts, while scanning Moriarty from tip to toe, "You're going to train me?" He emphasises his last words only just enough to make clear it's a question.  
"No," Lestrade interrupts, "Most teams have a physiotrainer, but we, well, you've got both. A physiotherapist who's solely there for the purpose of massaging you before and after every race. And in between of course. And a trainer, Philip Anderson. Anderson's not yet returned from his holidays yet, so Moriarty will take up your training the first two weeks."  


"So," Irene starts, taking John's hand gently into her own, "What do you think of Lestrade and Dimmock racing now?"  
John shrugs, eyes closed. So many people, so many names.  
"Don't know, they all seem nice, even afte-"  
"Even after you gave them such a hard welcome? John, they're our only chance."  
He sighs, taking his hand away from Irene's. "This is going to be tough. Working with that cunt of a Sherlock Holmes."  
He can hear Irene giggling. That's something he always liked about Irene. She has this high-pitched, feminine laugh, that could be no bigger contrast to her demeanor. Stamford used to compare her to a dragon, and John's the little egg. If you'd only say something bad about her little protegee she'd spit fire and breathe fumes. But she's always up for a joke, and even with a frown and thin lips he can still see the twinkle in her eyes whenever he tries to make her laugh.  
He lays her hand upon her shoulder, the only display of affection he can allow himself and snorts.  
"We'll do just fine, Irene. We'll do just fine."

* * *

 

Turns out doing just fine was a bit of an overstatement.  
"Faster!" Moriarty yells, manically clapping his hands together, as if the sound of that would ever help someone to go faster.  
"I'm already running as fast as I can!" John says as he runs by the place where Moriarty is seated. Yes, seated.  
He is running and fighting for air while that stick figure of a physio is just sitting there, drinking water and screaming at him to go faster.  
"I can't," John finally says, resting his hands upon his knees, trying to find enough air.  
"I can't believe you made it to be double world champion, with that poor excuse for a physique.  
If he'd be able to, he'd make some snarky remark and tell Moriarty that, opposed to his brother, Jim's only a physio. And not entitled to make decisions about John's adequacy. But he can't fucking breath, so all he does is glare. "Stop giving me that look and run another round. Or two."  
"No." But he lifts himself up again and starts.

He runs the two extra rounds.

 


End file.
